


And She Danced

by justbygrace



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 18:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9504380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbygrace/pseuds/justbygrace
Summary: Pole Dancer AU





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the first Dr Who fics I ever wrote way back in 2013 when I was just starting to find my voice. I wrote it as a personal challenge to myself.

What people don't seem to understand is that it's a job. It pays the rent, it keeps food on the table, it helps to cover the university loans, it's a means to an end. She wishes more people understood that, people like her mother and Mickey, like the men who stumble around, leering and joking and drooling. It's not like she's ashamed of what she does, not exactly. It's just that everyone acts like she ought to be. She'd like to see them perform some of the more complicated moves in her repertoire and then see if they'd still be so quick to judge and condescend. 

Today is Friday though, both her favorite and her least favorite night. Least favorite because it's the most crowded, the smell of alcohol and sweat and arousal sharp in the air; favorite because the more patrons, the more tips, but mostly favorite because Friday nights is when he will be there. It's not like he is even that attractive, at least not in the conventional way - his hair is too short, his ears are too large, his leather jacket too bulky - but that isn't why he's caught her eye. He always sits off to the right of the stage, nursing what looks suspiciously like a glass of water for the entire evening, eyes trained on her every move. She should be used to eyes on her and she is, just not the way he looks at her. He isn't trying to peel off her remaining clothes with his brain power, isn't reducing her to skin and curves. He looks at her like she means something, like she is worth something, but not in the pitying way that she sometimes catches from some of the other men. When he watches her she gets the feeling like she could do anything, be anything that she wants to be. 

It amazes her that she still gets butterflies before a performance when she has been at this for as long as she has. She struts on stage with a confidence she doesn't feel, channeling years of living on the Estate and fending off unwanted advances. As she starts her routine, she catches sight of him out of the corner of her eye and the jolt that goes through her has nothing to do with the high-kick she's just executed. He is always there, every Friday without fail, but there is always the chance that this Friday he might not be, that life, attachments, things that aren't dancing and clubs and the wrong side of town will take him away. 

This first dance isn't new, it's something she's done a hundred, a thousand times in the past and she hardly has to think about what she's doing. The whistles and cheers are easy to tune out, nothing matters except his blue eyes focused totally on her. She transforms her attraction into her ascension and her longing into the glide down, twisting her body, contorting in ways that should be impossible. For a moment, for a long and glorious moment, she feels important, powerful, loved, needed, wanted. It is her and stage lights and the intensity of his gaze. When the song ends she tries to avoid his eyes, tries to avoid seeing something that isn't there.

Her second dance is nearly the same as the first - tried and true routine, something to tantalize and promise of more to come later. She keeps her mind carefully blank for its entirety, moving for the sake of the routine and the music. It's hard not to glance his way, but she only allows herself that luxury once. It's definitely important not to give her manager reason to believe she can't concentrate; there are too many willing girls and not nearly enough open positions.

She spends her break staring into the mirror and trying desperately not to think. 

The third and final dance of the night is the new one. Most of the dancers premier new stuff on Saturday nights, but she likes Fridays, though she chooses to pretend it doesn't have anything to do with the quiet stranger to the side of the stage. She has worked hard on this routine, practicing it in quiet moments in her flat. She feels like tonight is important, for reasons that she doesn't understand but can practically taste.

She lets herself sink into the music, becoming one with the beat and transforming it with her hips, her legs, her turns and flips. She closes her eyes, blocks out everything except her movements and the smooth metal of the pole beneath her. She may not be the best dancer they have, but this isn't about that. Not tonight. This dance, it's her gift to him and she desperately prays to every god she doesn't believe in that he'll understand that. 

If she concentrates hard enough, she can push everything else away; pretend there is no one and nothing else, just them, just her performing for him. She can pretend that she knows him, really knows him, knows his name and what he likes and doesn't like and whether he leaves his socks in the middle of the living room floor. She can pretend that when this is over, she'll go to him and he'll be there, arms welcoming and safe. That they'll move to a dance of their own making. It's a delusion and it shatters along with the final chords of the song, leaving her cold and empty but still smiling out at the crowd; she is a professional after all.

She changes into jeans and a sweater, grabbing up her old coat before ducking out the back door. It's late, long past midnight, but she doesn't live far from here and she's been running these streets since she was old enough to sneak out of her bedroom window. She barely pays attention to where she's going, mentally still on stage, going through her performance for the flaws and defects, still feeling his gaze on her. 

She is so caught up in her thoughts that when she runs straight into someone distinctly male it takes her a second to regain her equilibrium, clutching onto a warm arm for support. She lets her gaze travel upwards over his torso and settle on familiar blue eyes. She blinks, vaguely aware that his other arm (the one she doesn't have a death grip on) is around her waist. She swallows, hardly daring to believe that he is here, that he is holding her, that his face is a hair's breadth away from hers. She thinks she ought to move, but she can't find it in herself to actually do so. 

"Hello." And, oh dear god, his voice is every bit as amazing as she had imagined it would be.

"Hello." Her voice sounds unnaturally high-pitched and she winces a bit. 

"I'm the Doctor." He offers his name like a gift.

"Rose. Rose Tyler." How mane lectures has she sat through about telling complete strangers her real name and yet here she is.

"Nice to meet you, Rose Tyler." He says her name in the same way other men talk about athletes and sex.

Neither of them say anything for a long moment and then someone moves; she isn't entirely sure which one of them it is, and his lips are on hers, moving with a gentle pressure that is just this side of demanding. She tentatively licks his bottom lip and he opens for her, deepening the kiss, letting her win the brief battle for dominance. It is warmth and home and just enough and not nearly enough. He moves away first, neck arched up and eyes dark. 

"I'm headed to Europe in the morning. For business." He grits the words from between his teeth.

It takes her a minute to remember how to speak. "You're leaving?" She would hate herself for how needy she sounds, but she finds she can't quite care at the moment.

"For business." He repeats and his eyes shine with regret. "I won't be back for awhile."

She can't help moving closer to him, fisting her hands into the back of his jacket. She can't find the words to say everything she wants to, to ask the million and one questions racing through her mind. Instead, she focuses on his eyes, dark with desire, with intent, with something that looks an awful lot like safety.

"You could come with me, if you want." His words are casual; his tone is anything but.

She pauses, considers. This is mad, this is daft, this is...this is brilliant. She looks up at him, tilts her head to catch his gaze. He looks nervous and it isn't faked, twenty-odd years on this side of the tracks and she knows all the signs of someone hiding something. She smiles, slowly at first and then widening into a full on, tongue-touched grin. 

His answering grin could light the whole of central London for years to come. He steps back and she is momentarily afraid, afraid that this is one more daydream. And then he grabs her hand in his. "Run Rose Tyler!"


End file.
